In the darkest and most sombre part of this forest, the lovers of antiquity will arrest their steps, delighted, at the very curious village of Carré-les-Tombes, so called from the immense number of tombs formerly found in its environs. So very numerous were they, that in 1615 the Count de Chatelux, seigneur of the parish, had some of them sawn up to build and pave the present church and tower of the steeple, and also to roof the choir. They were seven or eight feet in length, and hollowed out like troughs. Tradition says they were all found empty, with the exception of five; in these reposed tall skeletons, blanched by time, each having a helmet on his head, and a Roman sword by his side. The stones of three only of these five tombs bore any inscription, name, mark, or sign. On one was a double cross, very coarsely engraved; on the second, a very large escutcheon, which the antiquaries, in spite of their magnifying glasses, their science, and their patience, could never decipher; and on the other, the most curious of the three, a Latin inscription, in a legible, but very ancient character.
Having one day had the simplicity to translate this inscription to a young and beautiful Andalusian widow, smart was the rap of the fan that I had for my pains. I had parried her curiosity as long as I could, for her dark and dangerous eyes and clear olive complexion, which betrayed every pulse of her southern blood, combined to put me on my guard. Reader, will you wonder?—here is the inscription:
"Qui Dæmone pejus? Mulier rixosa: fug ..."
"But what does it mean?" said my curious brunette.
"Señora, that you are lovely."
"Stuff, sir! not at all;" and she tossed her graceful head pettishly; "I really wish you to translate it."
"Well—here, then: 'Qui Dæmone pejus'—dark women; 'mulier rixosa'—are the loveliest."
"No, no! I say; I am sure that is not it. Say it, word for word, or I shall be angry—I vow I shall."
"Word for word!" What was I to do?
"Word for word," reiterated Dona Inez.